I didn’t intend the book as anything therapeutic and I don't think that’s a novel’s goal or responsibility.

For the artist himself art is not necessarily therapeutic; he is not automatically relieved of his fantasies by expressing them. Instead, by some perverse logic of creation, the act of formal expressions may simply make the dredged-up material more readily available to him.

At the bottom of freshly dug holes, I bury my problems alongside the waxen seeds.